


Torrents of Neon

by voleuse



Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2816006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Love can be blurred, shaped like an onion peel.</em><br/>If she can avoid naming what she wants, then maybe she’ll never lose it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Torrents of Neon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slightlykylie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlykylie/gifts).



> This story is meant weave between and through the episodes of the third season.

Dana walked out of the courtroom, feeling the faint buzz of an easy win—some still-stoned nineteen-year-old, selling pot in a middle school parking lot—and stepped sideways, out of the courtroom rush, to tend to her blinking phone. She had three e-mails waiting, all from work, two text messages from her mother, and one text message sent in the past minute.

_Drinks?_

Dana looked up, and down the hall, Kalinda Sharma smiled at her. It looked she was pulling on a mask.

*

Cary walked her to her door, shrugging when she rolled her eyes and shrugging when she flirted. She put the key into the door, then turned. “You could come in,” she said. She didn’t smile, because she wasn’t conceding.

He shrugged at her invitation, too. “Do you want me to?” He was smiling, the way he always smiled, prepared to back off the very moment she tired of the repartee.

Dana twisted her arm back, opened the door and backed inside, each step a slow double-click against the floor. She saw his right hand twitch, forward, then back. She smirked then, and closed the door to his rueful laugh.

*

Dana felt a slight twinge of guilt every time she sorted through the files. In the back of her mind, she saw, again, the way Kalinda looked down and away from her, the way Kalinda pursed her lips, tilted her head. Kalinda, Dana thought, really cared for Gardner, as if he wasn’t a criminal, as if he wasn’t representation for Bishop, for Sweeney, for two dozen and more murderers, each one wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit.

Dana handed a sheaf of papers to an intern, then rolled her head back and forth, wincing at the tight muscles at the base of her neck and the small of her back. She thought about the office she had thought would be hers, the plush grey carpet and the wall of windows. She let the sting resonate, just for a moment.

She looked at her phone. She flipped open another file.

*

One too many shots of tequila, and Kalinda’s palm settled against Dana’s back, warm against her skin, right above her belt.

Dana caught her breath. Kalinda smiled, her fingers slipping under cloth. “Is this,” Dana murmured, “is this you following through?”

“Depends if you follow,” Kalinda replied. She released Dana and flipped a bill onto the bar, breaking eye contact only as she turned to weave through the crowd, towards the corner of the bar.

“Okay,” Dana said. She looked at the empty glasses they’d abandoned and thumbed through her wallet, yanking a twenty out to cover her part. For a quick second, she lost track of Kalinda, a trio of tax accountants obscuring her view. Dana cursed and craned her neck, took a guess and headed for the restroom. 

The women’s room was dimly lit; Kalinda didn’t look over her shoulder when Dana entered. A woman was emerging from one of the stalls; Dana thought she was from Canning & Meyers, maybe. Dana set her purse on the counter, idly flicking at her wallet, her phone, a tube of lipstick. Kalinda was gazing at her own reflection, fingers twitching a lock of hair behind her ear. 

The woman—Christy? Kirstie?—nodded at Dana politely after washing her hands. Dana’s smile faded as the woman exited. Kalinda turned, and in two strides she was pressing Dana back into the wall, her hand sliding under the hem of her skirt, pushing firmly between Dana’s legs even as her other hand traced over the chain of Dana’s necklace and down, catching against the collar of her blouse.

“I don’t think that door locks,” Dana muttered, gasping as Kalinda delved past silk, past lace. Her fingers were cool, but not for long. Dana hissed, her head tilting back until she hit the wall.

Kalinda curved forward. Her teeth grazed against Dana’s earlobe. “Want me to stop?”

“Yes,” Dana said. She bucked. “No. No.” Her hips canted forward, and she clutched the hem of Kalinda’s jacket, her nails biting into the leather. “Oh god.”

The door opened, but whoever came in backed out with an outraged gasp.

“Stop?” Kalinda whispered.

Dana snaked a hand behind Kalinda’s neck and pulled. Their lips pressed together just moments before Dana came.

*

They crossed paths at a police station, four days later. Dana had been watching an interrogation from behind mirrored glass. When she emerged from the shadows of the room, blinking, Kalinda was there, leaning one shoulder next to the vending machine.

Dana looked back at the interrogation room. “One of yours?”

Kalinda lifted one shoulder. “Maybe.”

“She’s guilty,” Dana said, and wished that her voice didn’t sound so disappointed. “She did it.”

“Maybe,” Kalinda said again. “What makes you so sure?”

Dana started to answer, then stopped. “You’re fishing,” she finally replied.

“Maybe.” Kalinda pushed off the wall and smiled. “One way to find out.”

*

The stories Dana told Cary while they were in bed had nothing to do with the truth.

*

It wasn’t until after she swept past Kalinda, palm stinging, that Dana remembered how many people had been in the hallway, how many people she had barely registered, but recognized. She sat at her desk, face hot, staring at her inbox.

Somebody paused in front of her desk. Dana looked up.

Wendy had lost the flustered look from her eyes, and her expression was composed as ever. 

“I’m sorry,” Dana said. 

Wendy raised her eyebrows . “You will be.” She walked away.

*

Her phone buzzed. Dana pulled it out of her purse.

 _Sorry_ , it said. And then, _I don’t like mess._

She shifted her hand, about to hit _reply_. She stopped. Somewhere down the hall, a toddler was shrieking. It almost drowned out the hushed, monotone thrum of voices, desperate, angry, sad. Dana looked down at the carpet; it was brown, and patchy next to the wall. 

Dana breathed deep, acknowledged the sting she felt. She counted to twelve. She dropped her phone back into her purse.

She went back to work.

**Author's Note:**

> The title and summary are adapted from Erika Meitner’s poem, _Niagara_.


End file.
